Reaped
by Tilphousia
Summary: On the eve of the second Quarter Quell, Johanna Mason is kidnapped at Snow's orders by one of the rich Capitol sponsors, who holds a secret grudge against her. Very dark.


**Note**: A gift fic for my dear friend, almanera, who has contributed to _Reaped_ with so much invaluable advice, and who created a gorgeous poster for this story.

Johanna Mason belongs to S. Collins. The credit for River, the tribute from District Twelve in Johanna's year, goes to the amazing FernWithy, whose stories can be found on this website. The character of Ianus Dolman, a rich Capitol sponsor, is a creation of almanera and me.

**Warning:** explicit sexual content, non-consensual sex, physical and psychological torture

* * *

><p>The canon had detonated, and they were running towards Cornucopia, the wind swishing in their ears, drowning every other sound besides their feverish breathing. She knew she had to stay safe, to give up the weapons and hide while everyone else was occupied, but her mind was absurdly calm; she felt no fear. The rush of adrenaline in her head and limbs had been such that she had the impression of floating—floating rather than running. She had no doubt that if she could sprout wings, she would be able to outfly all the other tributes to the tent filled with precious ammunition. The idea of taking flight made her half-dizzy, though she never halted. She could already see the glint of the weapons arranged in the tent; they, too, seemed to float. Her arms were heavy in anticipation of the axe she was intent on grabbing; so heavy that they almost hurt. She reached out, her hands clutching at the air, and all but moaned in pain as a spasm contorted them. For some reason, she could not cry out; the harder she tried, the more muffled her voice became. It was as if something thick had suddenly filled her mouth, preventing her from making a sound. The weight in her arms had now brought her to a complete stop, and the dizziness was overcoming her: the world was spinning, dancing, laughing around her while she was falling through the earth, as if sucked in. And then she heard the approach of a stream of water, which rolled over her face and chest. She pulled in a sharp breath through her nose, shivered, and bolted into sitting position.<p>

Or attempted to. As the light of several electric lamps hit her eyes and chased away the remnants of the dream—or had it been a hallucination?—Johanna realised she had not collapsed onto the ground, as she had believed. She was standing, slumped on the ropes that were binding her wrists together in the direction of the ceiling. Only, the ceiling was so high that she could barely see the end of the ropes. Thank goodness, they were long enough to allow her to stand freely on the floor rather than hang. Her arms still hurt, though, and an unpleasant tingling sensation was coursing through her palms and fingers. She could not have been standing like this for long.

Her arms were bare. So was the rest of her body. A whisper of cold wandered all over her skin, but she could not so much as gasp, for there was a gag in her mouth—large, round, and revolting. She attempted to rid her mouth of the intrusion, but it was securely tied around her head with an elastic ribbon.

"Miss Mason," a smooth voice rang out from behind her. "Awake, I trust? It was high time."

She recognised it at once, and her heart all but covered in ice. Soft steps shuffled on the floor, rounding on her bound figure to face her. First, she saw snow-white trousers, followed by a nude muscular torso. Then her eyes rose to the smug face of Ianus Dolman, one of the Capitol's most prominent sponsors, and the amused look on his face told her that things were going very, very badly for her. He was holding a jar of water in one hand; cubes of ice rested at its bottom. This explained the streamlet which had woken her from the unconsciousness.

So they had kidnapped her. The memory of her most recent daring words against Snow—a remark on the berries being in season—swam to the front of her mind, and she quickly looked around, assessing her surroundings. The room was immense: vast and clear and half-empty for the lack of furniture. Three windows could be seen behind Dolman: two on her sides, one in front of her. All of them were completely dark, which meant she was no longer in the Capitol, where lights never went out, but in a secluded countryside—the mountains, perhaps.

Her heart was beating faster and faster as the realisation was sinking in, and she was only vaguely aware of the beads of sweat that were erupting on her forehead and mingling with the drops of icy water he had thrown into her face. She was a prisoner in this house—Dolman's secret residence, unless she was much mistaken. The man was one of Snow's most popular cronies, and there was no way he could be doing this without the president's permission. The old snake had decided to bring her there for an interrogation; she could see this more clearly with every heartbeat, every second that went by. And judging by the humiliating position she had been forced into, this interrogation was meant to be long and inventive.

Slowly, she let out a breath she had been unconsciously holding; it felt, for an instant, as though all the feeling in her hands and feet had evaporated. Could they possibly go through with such a plan?They could never get away with her death, not even if they explained it as a banal accident. It was too convenient and too overused an excuse. Would the general public—aside from her friends—really believe their lies? Because die she would if it came to an actual interrogation, for no matter the torture, she was not telling the snakeface anything… except a few truths he deserved to hear. It had come to this, and theatrics were not relevant anymore.

Seconds ticked by. Closing her eyes, she concentrated hard, struggling to bring her heart to its usual pace. In the end of the day, everything was all right, the way it was meant to be; she had always sensed it would end like this. She was neither the first nor the last person to perish this way: in a secret, isolated place, with no one but the enemy present. But she would not show fear, never. If they killed her, they were going to have a run for their money, as she was not about to go humbly. She would fight back with all her might, if not physically, then at least verbally. After all, did the mentors not know more about these snakes than anyone else? Besides, her death would be a precious warning to her friends; a sign that they now had to be cautious, more so than ever. And if Snow attempted to tamper with her mind… two could play at this game. She slowly set her shoulders back and steeled herself for the snakeface's voice, which she was sure would ring out behind her any second. Instead, she heard Dolman's voice, smooth and surprisingly polite.

"Hello there, Johanna. Welcome to my humble residence. I have always wanted you to visit this place, one way or another. My wish has finally come true."

The glare was her only means of response, and she used it profusely to convey her opinion on his wish. He tilted his head to one side.

"You must be wondering what the meaning of this is. I know you are a rather… direct person, so out my respect for you, I will pass straight to the point."

He started pacing slowly before her, the jar tapping against his leg, his grey eyes fixed on hers. "You see, I have been eager to have a private moment with you… to get to know you better, so to speak. You have fascinated me for quite some time, Miss Mason. I can't quite put my finger on the precise qualities that attract me in you—perhaps it's your cheek, or your humour, as biting as it might be, or your brightness; I wouldn't know."

Suddenly he came closer—not close enough for her to kick him, which she would have done with great pleasure, but close enough to let her hear his next quiet words. "Or perhaps I have simply grown tired of being insulted in public and having my friends' names dragged in the mud. Who knows?" He smiled, as though his words were quite innocent, and resumed his pacing.

"Be that as it may, President Snow wouldn't hear about it. From what I found out, I wasn't the only one of your… admirers he had turned down. It was almost as if he were protecting you, I swear. But then, on the night of the feast in the honour of our Star-Crossed Lovers, he called me to his private rooms and told me he would grant my request. Funny, isn't it? Not that I would complain. And here you are."

He stopped again, right in front of her, and looked her square in the eye.

If the gag were not stretching her jaws, her mouth would have dropped. Once again, all feeling fled her limbs, only it was now much more intense—so intense that she was certain she would collapse.

_This was impossible. This was impossible. This was impossible_. He was lying, of course he was; this was all a part of the torture they had designed to frighten and break her. If it were true, why would he be telling her all this? No, Snow could not have agreed to Dolman's requests; it did not make any sense. It had once been his plan to turn her into… but she had firmly refused, making it clear that she would rather die than be debased. And she had paid her price, which had been a thousand times heavier than her offence. So how could this be possible now, after all that time?

Her horror and disbelief were so strong that she didn't even realise she was tugging at her restraints, and her breathing was turning faster and faster, threatening to choke her, though she remained oblivious to all these sensations. Dolman watched her struggle thoughtfully.

"Judging by your reaction, you don't seem to believe me. I wonder why… Surely this is no novelty among you, victors. Take that beloved fisherman of yours. Unless… you had some kind of silent agreement with President Snow." He eyed her curiously, taking in every shift of muscles in her face. "Or not so silent, perhaps? Did you offer him something else, something more valuable than the powers of your attraction? Maybe information on your friends? Personally, I wouldn't have assessed you as a traitor, but then, you did surprise us all during your Games."

Her face was flushing red, but this was nothing compared to the white-hot fury his words had ignited in her. Her axe was unnecessary—she could have pummelled the smug bastard with her bare hands if only they were free. And that was what she was going to do one day, so help her. Kicking him was the least she could do, though, and she put her entire force into the blow, aiming for his so-called "male" appendage. To her frustration, he avoided her in time, taking a step back.

"I'm definitely wrong, then." He pretended to think. "Let's try again. If I may ask you a very personal question, Johanna, do you have a family?"

She froze. And from that single second of true, unfeigned shock and pain and reminiscence, he seemed to cotton up.

"I see." Then he shrugged. "None of my business, though, is it? Let's take this gag off."

He approached her again, reaching behind her head with his left hand—his right was still clutching the jar—and untied the elastic. The gag slipped out of her mouth, and before he could so much as blink, she bit him with abandon. He wrenched his hand back, not a sound escaping his lips. With a fleeting feeling of pride, she glimpsed a set of white imprints on the swollen red skin of his arm, which he inspected silently before raising his expressionless eyes to hers. The following instant, he swung his right arm. Ice-cold water spluttered her face and bare chest, causing her to shiver, only to be followed by a dozen cubes of ice. She instinctively closed her eyes and turned her head away, but the impact left angry marks on her cheeks and breasts nonetheless. Gasping, she looked up to see him stand right before her, the jar empty in his hand, his eyes lit with a frightening fire she had never seen there before. Against her expectation, he did not hit her. Instead, he walked away, his steps deceptively soft behind her, like the steps of a stalking panther.

"You are _so_ clever, Dolman," she threw out, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "So jaw-droppingly perceptive. Why didn't you summon some of this 'cleverness' of yours when it was needed most? If I remember correctly, you didn't bet on me the year of my Games; you were so sure the career from District Two would win. It took me about ten seconds to defeat him. Cost you a little fortune, didn't I?"

She could no longer see him, but his steps never stopped; they had only retreated towards the back of the room. He appeared to be looking for something.

"As a matter of fact, you did." His voice was calm, dispassionate. "But the truth is, I _always_ get my investments back, as you're about to find out."

The same feeling of disbelief and anger flashed inside her, but her mind was set. She was not doing any of the revolting things he was hinting at. They could not force her, for there was nothing they could use to blackmail her with. Her entire family was gone, and she herself would rather die than allow Dolman's filthy hands to touch her. Better yet, she would kill him first, and only then allow herself to be executed.

"Why don't you call President Snow right away?" she shot out in irritation, still desperate to convince herself she had been dragged there for an interrogation. It would not make things easier by any means, yet she much preferred this outcome to the one Dolman had lain out before her. "I have no business with lapdogs. If he wants to have me questioned, he might as well come in in person."

There were a few seconds of silence before he asked, "Questioned? Why would he want to do that?"

The bottom of her stomach seemed to drop off. Unless he was acting, he knew nothing of her involvement with the rebels. And she had just given him a hint to think about… Not to mention that his answer excluded any intention of interrogation. Besides, if Snow had been present, he would have surely revealed himself by now.

"Why else would you have me tied up like this?" she improvised wildly in an attempt to throw him off track. "Or is it a part of your intimate routine? Funny, I've never heard Enobaria mention it, yet she must be an expert on your kinks."

This was the first time she was explicitly acknowledging his relationship with her fellow mentor, and while her statement was an exaggeration—she was on cold terms with the District Two female victor, and they had certainly never discussed their private lives together—he deserved to hear it.

"This is why," he murmured behind her. Suddenly something brushed the skin of her back: a thin, long object that felt both firm and springy. "Do you know what this is? Have you ever come into contact with this fascinating little device? If not you, then some friends of yours must have. It has a wide variety of uses, you see. Torture and interrogation are one. Punishment is another. This one here, however, has been made… for pleasure." He came even closer, so close that she felt his breath on her neck and shied away from his touch. "_My _pleasure, to be precise."

"A device for torture and interrogation? Could you possibly be referring to your manhood?" she jeered. "Sounds like it… although I doubt it's as impressive as you make it sound."

There was no response. A few seconds elapsed, during which she heard him pull back, and knowing his silence presaged no good—for Dolman always was the happiest when he could knock someone down with his witticisms—she held her breath. A heartbeat later, there was a sickening swish, and her back exploded on fire. All air seemed to have fled her chest, and she pulled in in a spasmodic breath. He was _whipping_ her.

Before she could say a word, she heard the horrible swish again, and it was all she could do in the remaining split second to clamp her mouth shut, unwilling to make any sound of distress. The second blow caused her body to shudder beyond control. She could tell this torture device was very long and slim, presumably made of leather. She had seen so many people tormented this way, and had always been aware—even as a little girl—that it could happen to her, too, or to any of her family members or friends, if such were the decision of the Peacekeepers. And here she was, unable to control her body after two blows. Suddenly, she felt ashamed of herself. There was no way she was going to be weak. Many people from her district, people she loved, had gone through this and would emerge unbroken and no less determined than before. This pain was not unbearable; it was far below her threshold, below her dignity. She took a steady breath, steeled herself for another blow, and allowed a smirk to brighten her face.

"So it _is_ a part of your courting ritual, isn't it, Ianus? I understand your frustration. You must be angry at all the female population of Panem for preferring Finnick to you. Why, even your own wife always looks him over when he's in public."

_Crack_. She suppressed a wince and went on. "I see you've even dressed up like him—or rather attempted to. You should have spared your time. You… you won't l-l-llook l-l-like Finnick even if you p-p-pay for a p-plastic surgery. In a few years, you are more likely to look like Claudius. Why don't you ask him for cosmetic advice?"

His next blow almost made her jump. She forced out a laughter which was not far from a cough, but continued with a fierce enthusiasm. "Or has Enobaria convinced you otherwise? Of course she has. That's what you pay her for: to nurse your pathetic ego."

Steeling herself for more pain, she tensed, but no blow came. Instead, an iron hand gripped her around the neck.

"You never know how to keep your mouth shut, do you?" he hissed right into her ear. "That's all right. I'm a good teacher."

She was about to make a sarcastic riposte when something happened that she had not expected: he crushed his lips against hers and brutally invaded her mouth, holding her in place by her throat. Instinct and panic instantly made her attempt to kick him regardless of how disadvantageous her position was, but she could do it no better than break his grip. This felt even more horrible than whipping, however absurd it sounded. The sensation of his intrusive lips on hers was so disturbing that when he abruptly released her, she was too stunned to speak. Her lips felt tainted.

"You're disgusting," she ground out once her voice returned. "And women actually _like_ you? I don't believe it; you must have been spreading these rumours to gain attention. Personally, I'd have chosen Haymitch or Caesar over you anytime."

_Crack_. Her knees were on the verge of buckling in pain.

"Ah, but they won't have you, will they?" he asked sweetly.

_Crack_.

"Caesar is married, and Haymitch is too taken by his liquor and his Girl on Fire to care about you."

_Crack_.

"I alone desire you. You should be grateful for this chance to gain a male's attention."

He was losing control over his temper, Johanna noticed gleefully through her sweat and tears. Had he not said earlier that other men from the Capitol had expressed interest in her? He was making no sense.

"You still forget Finnick," she snickered. "Have you not been listening on our last interview? He's the one my heart belongs to."

A particularly painful blow followed this confession, and then she was unceremoniously shoved off her feet. The rope was not long enough to allow her to settle on her knees, so she hung there helplessly, feeling every inch of the ropes cut into her wrists. It was only then, when a streamlet of air caressed her half-frozen soles, that she vaguely realised why he had forced her into this position, but it was too late to pull herself up. Quick like a flash, the whip descended onto her feet, welting the sensitive soles. The pain was blinding, and for the first time, she screamed, the sound carrying into the vast, empty rooms.

"That's for dragging my wife into your dirty talk," he said quietly.

Footsteps bypassed her—she did not see him walk forward as she was gasping for air, trying to recuperate—and stopped right in front of her.

"And this is for insulting Enobaria."

Dead-cold inside, she looked up in time to see him swing the whip, his eyes completely expressionless and his hand relaxed, as though handling the whip were an activity he had been practising on a daily basis. This time, he hit her across the chest, and the agony of it was almost equal to having her soles whipped. Her sight was now clouding; but even if it weren't, she would be reluctant to look at her welted breasts.

A hand sneaked up under her chin and forced her tear-stained face up.

"You know," he whispered, "I would love to put the gag back in place and watch you suffocate to death. But orders are orders. No killing, no permanent injury. Other than that…"

He kept speaking, but she did not hear his next words. Everything was dark, a world of misery and pain and blur. Her head dropped on her chest when he let go of her, and to her mild panic, she sensed rather than heard him walk behind her again. The next blow was like the sting of a million tracker jackers, meant to expel the very blood and entrails out of her. Then everything dissolved into darkness.

* * *

><p>And darkness it was, sparked with irregular flares of agony. At one point of this eternity—how long, though?—countless hands seemed to roam over her body, rubbing in some sort of paste that felt like lava on her skin. Little by little, however, the pain withdrew, hovering somewhere in the background of her mind, too faint to make her suffer. The soles of her feet still hurt whenever they brushed the ground… or was it fabric? She was lying on something soft… and pain was reclaiming her. A sharp sting on her arm, an injection of ice into her chest… And the darkness never faltered; it only gained shades and layers, through which she was floating.<p>

A finger landed on her lip. At least her mouth didn't hurt. Still, the touch was bothersome, and she tried to turn her head away, to shake the finger off. All she succeeded in was tilting her face one inch towards the left. The finger did not budge.

"You are parched," a voice observed by her side. "Let me help you."

Was she tied up? Had it been a dream? Who did this voice belong to? It resembled Dolman's voice, but Dolman couldn't be speaking so calmly, not to her.

She attempted to lift an arm and catch the hand that was touching her, but her limbs seemed to be made of steel. It took her a tremendous effort to raise her right a few inches, and by the time she had brought it to her face, the stranger's finger was gone. Instead, a strong hand reached under her back and gently helped her rise to half-sitting position, keeping her head slightly tilted.

"Careful now," the same voice instructed her.

Something touched her mouth: the edge of a cup. Eagerly, she parted her lips to drink. The water felt like a blessing, like the breath of life. It was hard to swallow, but she managed to take a few gulps before the cup withdrew. The arm laid her back onto what felt like a mattress.

"Better, isn't it?"

It _was_ Dolman's voice. Her body gave an instinctive twitch, far beyond her control.

"What… what… are… you…" she tried to mumble, but her lips moved so infinitesimally that she doubted he could hear her distinctly.

"Don't exert yourself," he admonished. "This substance is strong. You'll only waste your force and lose consciousness."

This could be true, but she refused to lie there helpless in his presence. Why could she not see? Was she blindfolded?

"My… eyes…" she muttered with difficulty. "Put… this… blind—"

This was as far as she got because his lips descended onto hers and pressed them lightly in a chaste kiss.

"I've always wanted to do that," he purred, his voice full of laughter. "_In public_."

Her body twitched again, more violently than before. He was there, right against her, and she could not move, could not even speak properly. Every welt and bruise on her body seemed to open up and scream.

"Get… away," she managed before her lips were covered by his once again.

Although still chaste, this kiss was long and more insistent. Its intimacy made her skin crawl. And then a hand sneaked up her thigh and stopped on her waist while his mouth shifted to explore her neck. Unseeing or not, her eyes opened wide in shock.

"Stop," she hissed. This single word came out more assertive than any of her previous words, but he only chuckled.

"I don't think so."

His lips kept trailing along her throat, feather-light. She wished she could brush them off like a fly. Quite honestly, she would have preferred being bitten by a poisonous insect to being tainted by his disgusting advances. When his tongue darted out to tease a spot below her chin, she did the only thing she could think of to take her mind of the revolting sensation. Curling her fingers, she closed her hands in fists, concentrating with all her might on digging her nails deeper and deeper into her palms.

"Look at you," he whispered between nibbles, his voice floating around her like a strange halo. "Johanna Mason: a victor, a killer, a mentor who has faced various horrors of the arena. And here she is, shivering like a leaf when kissed by a man. You know, I don't think I believe your claptrap about having slept with the fisherman. If I've ever seen a virgin, then you are one. And he doesn't even look like he could jump a woman. That's why he's so popular with the male population of the Capitol, you see."

Her nails were now decidedly leaving marks in her palms, for which she was grateful, for there was nothing as frustrating as being unable to break the raping bastard's face for insulting her friend. She brought all of her attention to the pain in her hands, pressing harder still, desperate to draw blood.

The words broke out spontaneously from her lips. "You disgust—"

But her insult was cut off by a new kiss.

"Looks like I have finally found a way to silence you," he mocked once he broke it. "I must be the first man in the Capitol to have thought of it."

To her dismay, the mattress she was lying on shifted, as though another person was lying down beside her.

_Oh no, please, no. Let me be whipped to death. _

Her silent plea was ignored when a hand casually landed between her legs, trailed up her stomach and settled on the swell of her breast, as though it belonged there. The way it brushed her nipple sent a faint tingle down her groin, which was replaced by horror when she felt something warm and very hard press into her thigh.

For some reason, her nipples seemed to be hardening under his touch. This surreal sensation was half-pleasant, half-repulsive. There was now a tiny rivulet in her right fist; this hand was stronger, as it always carried her axe. Arena… she would have never thought the memories of the Games could alleviate her tension, but recalling them now helped shift her mind from Dolman's unwelcome presence or the way he was fondling her crotch, eliciting only faint response in her loins, but which was still more humiliating than anything she could imagine.

Then, without warning, he plunged a finger into her, cautious but none-too-gentle. Strangely, grotesquely, it met wetness.

"You seem ready," he declared in a satisfied tone. "Ripe, if I may say so."

He shifted on his knees, pulled her legs wide apart and settled between them, holding her hips in place. Once again, she felt the revolting touch of his thick warm manhood against her, but feeling it at her very core was more sickening than anything he had yet done. Her fists clenched and unclenched slowly, her nails tainted with blood, while her eyes were clouding and closing. She was in the arena, an axe in her arms, and Dolman was bleeding to death at her feet while the Capitol cheered and Caesar gave an excited analysis of how she had slain the bastard. Then she was turning her back on his gurgling form and walking back towards the cave where River was waiting, probably preparing whatever food he had found.

Pain invaded her, filling her little by little: the pain of being stretched beyond limits, as though she were about to be ripped on the inside. Despite the incomprehensible wetness in her intimate parts, his invasion was slow and laborious, which made it even more difficult for her to bear. She heard him exhale slowly, the sound one of pleasure mixed with pain, and then he suddenly thrust into her, bringing an unimaginable pain, filling her until his hips met hers with an audible slap. His new moan was louder, throatier.

"You feel perfect. Better than I imagined."

The mattress creaked as he lowered himself atop her, placing quick, light licks on her stomach, nipples and neck. Then she felt his breath on her face, and his tongue traced her mouth before his lips pressed hers. He started moving inside her: an agonising cycle of repetitive motions, which scraped her inner walls and made her feel as though a bloody tunnel were forming in her loins. However hard she tried, she could not take her mind off this pain—all images of the arena, of the cold and damp mountains were dissolving in this inferno. The only thought that brought her relief was how much it would hurt him if she chopped his genitals off, bit by small bit.

Yet before she could fully concentrate on this gratifying prospect, sharp light flooded her vision. The blindfold was gone. Right above her face, Dolman's sly eyes were glinting with glee.

"Couldn't have you fantasising about someone else, could we?" he asked rhetorically between grunts.

One again, he made a move towards her lips, but this time, she was able to slightly turn her head to one side, and he lowered his mouth to her neck instead, visibly not minding.

Closing her eyes no longer provided her the complete darkness of her blindfold, but it was enough to help her picture the cave, where River and she had spent those precious few hours of peace and warmth. Even after all these years, the cave remained a sanctuary in her mind. That was why she only half-heard Ianus's strangled cry, the nauseating sensation of sticky wetness spreading between her legs, and his weight on her as he gasped for breath.

She could not tell for how long he lay there, crushing her ribs and breathing into her ear. When, at last, he rose from the bed, it was without a glance in her direction. His muscular back swam out of view, and she heard the ripple of water poured into a glass. She hated how dry her lips suddenly felt. The ensuing silence made it clear he was drinking.

"I would offer you some," he said sardonically, setting the glass back, "but you forced me to spill your share all over you when you bit me."

This being said, he fell quiet again, and all she heard was indistinct shuffling. An instant later, she understood. He walked up towards her with a damp cloth in his hand—it was evident he had just used it to clean himself—and bent down, his hand reaching between her legs. While she by no means wished to have his mess on her skin for another second, she found his gesture as mortifying as the violation itself. He was not wiping her privates clean out of concern for her; he was doing it for his own reasons.

But what reasons could there be? He had already taken her. Did he have more humiliations in store? Or perhaps he and Snow had planned on starting the interrogation now—now that she was abused and dejected, and drugged to the point of paralysis.

Once more, she closed her eyes. It pained her to admit it almost did not matter to her whether they were about to question and kill her or not. With trepidation, she imagined the cave again. _Her sanctuary_. It was true: River's memory could not be taken away from her; his friendship and care were still alive in her, ready to comfort her whenever she needed them most. River's grey-blue eyes looked up at her in her mind, and she understood for the first time what those who claimed love or friendship never died had meant. A single small tear slid unwittingly from the corner of her eye.

"There is no need for that, you know," said the blank voice by her side.

_It's not in your honour, you narcissistic asshole. _

"For what?" she forced out with as much contempt as she could, her tone making it plain her emotions were not addressed to him.

He shrugged and returned onto the bed, tossing the used fabric away. To her disgust, his arms wound themselves around her. His fingers found and massaged the fading welts on her skin as if on purpose.

"It's no one's fault but yours," he whispered, his voice earnest for once. His eyes remained strangely, unnaturally devoid of feelings. Then again, he hardly counted as a human being. "If you hadn't been so foolish, things would have turned out quite differently. I would have made it my goal to make you happy. I would have covered you with gifts and attention. Look at Enobaria: she has everything she can dream of, and all she had to do was be good to me, to the Capitol, in return. What is your problem, Johanna? Pride? Insecurity? Why do you reject the offers of those who ask for nothing better than to love you?"

"Save your brainpower for watching kids' slaughter," she murmured with effort. "You wouldn't understand."

"You would be surprised at how much I understand," he replied. "But it's just as well. If you prefer that we maintain mainly non-verbal communication, that's fine with me."

He bent back to her neck to nuzzle it. One of his hands sneaked beneath her head, the fingers burrowing into her hair. She knew what he was about to do but was unable to stop him, not with her head being held in place. He kissed her slowly, with increasing intensity, and she fought as hard as she could, struggling to push his tongue out of her mouth, to press against his torso with her hands, though there was no hope of dislodging him. Her semi-paralysed body was capable of producing only sluggish movements, which seemed to amuse him, for he chuckled into her mouth. In response, she dug her nails into his skin, wishing she had claws.

"Please don't stop," he whispered as he broke off to catch a breath and nibble her lower lip. "I like you most when you are active."

It was maddening. Whatever she did only served to entertain him; but she was damned if she was going to lie still and take whatever he pleased to give her. It did not help that she could feel him getting hard again: the evidence was pressing right into her abdomen. But he could not possibly be thinking of doing it again, could he? A forceful hand on her breast promptly answered her question, and she felt a rush of panic mixed with faintness. On impulse, she did the only thing in her power to hurt him: she bit him hard. He pulled away and eyed her with a darkly thoughtful look, his lips slightly upturned.

"Getting hyperactive, are we?" His eyes narrowed. "Before you waste your energy, let me inform you I'm used to Enobaria's bites and enjoy them immensely. They are about thrice as painful as yours."

Without warning, he rolled over and pulled her on top of him. She suddenly found herself in a position that was terrible in its grotesque simulation of cosiness: her face was buried in his hairy chest, her breasts were flat against him, her arms lay splayed on either side of her head, and she had his disgusting appendage sticking into her stomach. Unwilling to breathe in the smell of his skin laced with some ridiculous lotion, she turned her face to one side. It was incredible she could hate him more than she had just moments ago, yet there she was.

He was entering her again with short, quick thrusts which stretched her without being as painful as before. A moan escaped him, and she felt his hands settle on her buttocks to knead them like fresh dough. How she longed to do the same to his accursed manhood, crushing it until nothing but a bloody mess remained. With colossal effort, she lowered her head, since he was moaning and grunting right into her ear. Her eyes fell onto his left nipple, exposed and vulnerable a few inches from her face, and she knew what to do. She was still too weak and slow to drag her head across his chest and bite it off, but she could now control her hands effectively enough. Focusing on her movements, she closed two fingers around the bud of flesh surrounded by black hair and applied as much pressure as her force allowed. He twitched.

"Naughty girl!" With one slap, her hand was brushed away and then caught in his larger one. "Don't do this again!" He smirked. "Not unless you want me to return the favour…"

To her anger, his other hand left her bottom and cupped one of her flattened small breasts. He took his time teasing her before twisting her nipple so painfully that only the drug helped her stay perfectly immobile. She made a show of staying stubbornly silent.

"Very good," he whispered into her hair. "That's why I like you. Don't ever change."

His pace was increasing, as were his breathing and his fierce caresses. One, two, three more thrusts, and it happened again: with a strangled cry, he dug his nails into her skin and exploded inside her, shaking and sweating profusely. Johanna's neck was starting to hurt from being turned to one side, but she much preferred this discomfort to having her face buried in the hair of his chest. At that moment, she felt so filthy and miserable that she could not even bring herself to think of the cave and her only friend in the Games. It seemed that invoking his memory in such circumstances would soil it.

She was proven wrong almost immediately. As he recovered, Ianus embraced her and kissed the top of her head, as one would kiss a wife or a true lover. It was the first and the only time he was touching her in a genuinely caring way during the whole night, and she froze, stunned not so much by his gesture as by a creeping feeling of déjà vu. She had received such an embrace from a man—a boy—before, but unlike this hellish night, it had meant tons to her. It was, in fact, one of the few things that had helped her keep her sanity intact for all those years.

In the complete silence and stillness around her, she realised Dolman was staring at her intently while her lips were moving, mouthing unintelligible words.

"What's that?" he asked carefully, earnest for once.

When he failed to receive an answer, she felt herself being shaken lightly but could not tear the chilling numbness out of her bosom.

"What are you saying?"

"I… promise. I promise. I promise."

The mattress shifted, and she slid into the warm sheets, the sensation of his skin on hers gone. Her trembling never stopped, and neither did the image of the grey-blue eyes on a tanned face framed with jet-black hair in her mind—a memory more vivid than it had been for years.

_Promise me you won't give up. _

Cool water trickled into her moving mouth. It leaked into her throat and caused a coughing fit. Her body shook again, this time in purely physical distress, and a hand propped her up again, waiting for the cough to pass and letting her drink a little more. Next, the same damp piece of cloth returned to wipe the mess between her legs. She was left gasping and shivering in the tangle of blankets until the bed creaked for the third time. Disheartened, she closed her eyes, feeling the touch of his hands before they even reached her. She could not stand it anymore. If he abused her again, she would go insane.

The arms closed around her nonetheless, pulling her into an embrace, but he did nothing else.

"Let's rest, shall we?"

The look in his eyes seconded the seriousness in his voice. Not that she believed him, or would even think of making that mistake.

A minute passed by, then another, yet all he did was hold her and stroke her hair in an annoying imitation of affection. She was relieved to have gained a reprieve from their forced intimacy, but this pretence of consolation was almost worse, if such a thing were even possible.

"Stop it!" she hissed.

The hand in her hair paused, tensed, and then dropped. It was surprising he had obeyed. Complete silence descended upon them. Behind Dolman's shoulder, shadows of branches moving in the wind were flickering on the ceiling. Her face was pressed into his chest, the rest of her body secured in his arms, so she could not see his expression; she only assumed he was relaxing quietly, perhaps even drowsing.

Her new position was not only restrictive but also uncomfortable in all the other senses. She was bold when it came to physical contact—hugging and kissing those she knew well did not intimidate her —but it had been long years since she had shared a long, meaningful embrace with anyone at all. The way Ianus was holding her was only a simulacrum of an embrace, yet for some reason, its intimacy made her think of the truly affectionate gestures she had received so long ago. She well remembered the hugs her family would give her, or the way she and River had huddled together under their only jacket to stay warm in that cave in the chilly arena. Over the years, she had been reluctant to allow herself to think back on those lighter moments too frequently, for they brought immense pain and wrecked her heart while she ought to stay strong—as strong as possible for the sake of her safety, her friends and the rebellion. At the same time, those memories were the most powerful purpose and stimulation she possessed.

And indeed, the pain was engulfing her again, the way it did whenever she allowed those cherished memories to expand in her heart. Finding herself in a position that suggested affection did not help. An inkling of tears was filling her eyes, and her throat was heaving and constricting with precipitated breaths that announced sobs.

With a colossal effort and a deep, slightly shaky intake of air, she closed her eyes and mentally slapped herself again and again. She would not cry. She would not cry. She would _never_ cry in front of any of the Capitol bastards, be they Dolman, Claudius or Snow himself. She would close her heart to foreign eyes and restrain herself from expressing her pain tonight if it had to be the last thing she ever did.

Little by little, her mind obeyed, followed by her body. Ianus never moved—he did not seem to notice, for which she was grateful. Even if he did not explicitly taunt her, his mock soothing words and caresses infuriated her so much she could not even think of a retribution that would do them justice. Why did he even bother pretending to console her? To disorient and humiliate her? Or was it an inept attempt at gaining some of her trust and, by extension, the information Snow was interested in? Although plausible, she did not feel this was true. Dolman was a good actor—a very good actor when it suited him—but he had appeared genuinely ignorant about her involvement with the rebels. This did not mean, though, that Snow shared his ignorance. He had to have suspicions. In fact, it was perfectly obvious he suspected her.

She had lost everything because of him: her freedom, her family, the lives of the kids she had mentored and watched die in terror and violence. And it still had not been enough: he had sold her to his lapdog of a sponsor, who had never even supported her in the first place and therefore had no valid claim on her. It certainly had to be a revenge for her daring comment on the berries, but this was not all there was. He knew there were rebels among victors. He wanted information. He was picking them, one by one, and attempting to break and unhinge them until they cracked—this was what was happening; this was why he had let his toady kidnap her. Was she the first one he had subversively attacked, or had he already got to someone else? Had he hurt Finnick or Haymitch or Chaff or Seeder, or were they still unsuspecting of the growing danger? Either way, she had to warn them as soon as she got out of this place. For she _would_ get out of there, she understood it now: it was not in Snow's intentions to have her killed tonight. Dolman had confirmed it: he had orders to leave no permanent marks on her. And since no interrogation had been set up, this was the answer: this night was meant to break her.

Well, if this were Snow's scheme, he had miscalculated. She was not going to let anyone break her. This night would only make her stronger—more furious, more determined, and more vengeful. And once the rebels' plans succeeded, she would personally make sure Snow and Dolman would pay for every second of suffering they had caused her and her friends.

With this promise, she felt marginally, infinitesimally encouraged. She attempted to move her arms and found out she could now do it more easily—the drug was wearing off. If he had dosed off, there was no time to lose. Tensing to render her body as alert as possible, she wriggled, determined to slip out of his clutches. It was a difficult task as she was pressed to his chest; the key was to do it gently and brush him as little as she could.

Despite her exertion, brush him she did. The one part of Dolman she had once hoped to never see sprang to life at the contact, making her freeze.

"Mmm, someone sure is impatient. The pause is getting too long, isn't it?"

If she had been able to move properly, she would have run for it. As it was, all she could do was crawl away, which was not quick enough. He caught her around the hips and pulled her back. Her bottom stuck up obscenely.

"Oh, what have we here? You know, your bum is much more delicious than your clothes give you credit for. That stylist of yours should be fired."

And then, incredibly, he bit her, first on one buttock, then on the other one.

"I want you to remember me every time you sit down this week."

Heaving her torso up by her waist, he pulled her into kneeling position. His crotch pressed into her abused bottom while one of his hands travelled to her breasts, holding her in place, and the other one slid to her centre. Her hips twitched in protest.

"Shhh."

He found a sensitive spot on her womanhood and started stroking it in circular motions, his fingers expert and confident, knowing exactly what to do, how much pressure to apply. She realised at once that while the fading drug released her limbs from their stupor, it also made the feelings return to her body, sharpening her senses. The sensations his teasing elicited were now more intense than before, and to her utmost disgust, they were not completely unpleasant. If someone else, someone she liked, were doing this to her, she might have enjoyed it. But she had no more intention of enjoying Dolman's ministrations than she would cry in front of him. Once again, she jerked to break his grip. In response, he shoved her down and lifted her hips in the most humiliating position she could imagine.

This penetration was even less painful than the last, for she felt moist and stretched around him, but she was becoming sore, and feeling him inside her was anything but comfortable. She only wished the nightmare would finally come to an end. How much longer did she have to endure it?

As if on cue, he bent down over her back and whispered, "Don't fight, I'm not hurting you. Enjoy it. I will do it for as long as it takes for you to feel pleasure. Morning is still far away, and I have beverages that will help us stay energetic for a very long time."

Her eyes opened wide. _No. Please no. Anything but that._

Hands were roaming over her back and breasts, and she could hear him pick up speed again, grunting as he did so. And an idea came to her; a humiliating idea, but a far better one than any alternative.

With what little control she had, she pushed her hips against him and let out a small moan, hating the pathetic sound, but hopeful that if she made him believe she had come to enjoy his attentions, he would be satisfied and would feel no need to force her any further. It worked: Ianus went berserk.

For a second, he withdrew—the time it took to turn her onto her back—and entered her again, kissing and suckling on her neck, nipples, earlobe. Johanna allowed herself to arch a little and gasp, and was rewarded with a bruising kiss that left her feeling utterly despoiled. The last seconds were frenzy; she echoed Dolman's cry of release—which rather resembled a cry of victory a tribute would let out in the arena after killing a particularly powerful opponent—and he collapsed onto her, shaking and gasping for breath. She only prayed her act had been convincing. After so much horror, she was _owed_ a little luck.

Finally, Dolman propped himself on his elbows and stared down at her. His grey eyes were smug, though it was possible to discern hints of malice and possessiveness in them. That terrible, self-contented smugness of his was so revolting that Johanna's hands almost rose in an irresistible urge to claw his eyes out. But this was not an option; now was not the time. She had to get out of there alive and alert everyone else.

"Thank you, Johanna," he purred. "It's been a delectable night. I can only hope you'll do something foolish soon so that we can have another night together."

She clenched her jaw and allowed all the hatred she felt for him to show in her murderous gaze and her dangerously quiet voice. "I swear I'll kill you first."

A smirk. "Please, try."

He kissed her again, this time slowly and gently. "Good night."

Then his weight was whisked away, and she heard him walk swiftly towards the door. A few muffled words reached her ears, and then another set of footsteps entered the room: a quiet, timid one. She attempted to get to sitting position and almost succeeded when pain shot through her right arm. A needle was piercing her skin.

The room spun around her, her muscles gave in to dizziness, and she felt back onto the pillows, seeing only darkness.

* * *

><p>Ianus was scowling at his hologram, the drink in his hand forgotten. He had found Johanna Mason's Games in the neat row of recordings his wife kept arranged in an ornate display case and was now flipping impatiently through various scenes, looking for one specific moment in those Games, which he only vaguely remembered. It involved the girl, of course, in the company of her ally—a skinny dark-haired boy from District Twelve. Not that there had ever been a tribute from that district who had not been skinny and dark-haired. There, he had found the scene he was looking for. The duo had hid in a cave, where they had decided to spend the night, confident the Careers would not follow them inside. He now recalled the boy more clearly—River his name had been. A typical boy from Twelve, except for one special feature that had made the Capitol split into two camps: those who loved and admired him, and those who despised him. He had been suffering from People-Saving Syndrome. And, very visibly, he had been head over heals for Johanna Mason. Ianus watched the two freezing kids share their piteous dinner and then engage in an inane conversation while they huddled together under a single jacket to keep warm. At one point, River asked his ally to promise him something in case he died. Her injunction for him to shut up fell on deaf ears, and he reiterated his request, begging her to never give up no matter what happened. Johanna promised. While her tone made it clear she only was complying to calm him down, Ianus could see she was serious and that the boy's words had sunk deep into her soul. Pacified, the boy embraced her and kissed the top of his head—very gently so, as if afraid she would scold him if she felt it. But she did it feel it—the camera showed her face, lit with a happy small smile.<p>

Hitting _pause_, Ianus stared darkly at the frozen image of the two cuddling kids. He now understood Johanna's reaction during their intercourse, understood why she had so suddenly gone rigid and had started mumbling gibberish, including her promise to the boy. That idiotic, weak, suicidal, _steaming_ turd of a boy.

Sometimes he hated tributes and victors for their presumption and ingratitude. They never comprehended how much the Capitol cared for them. The citizens of Capitol all but lived through the tributes: they cheered for them, sponsored them, propagated them, rewarded them; they allowed the victors to become a part of the elite. In return, they wanted love—nothing more and nothing less. It was the least the victors could do to return the affection directed at their personas.

Some of them, like his Enobaria, cottoned up and got to live happy lives. But the likes of Johanna—self-absorbed victors, in other words—never learned. They believed themselves better than Capitol, better than anyone else. They suffered by their own mistake but blamed the whole world for their misfortunes. It was unbelievable, come to think of it.

Soft footsteps resounded on the staircase, and Ianus quickly pressed the _play_ button on the remote control so that the scene would continue. His wife, Gherania, came down; an exquisite slim thing with bright black eyes and black hair hidden under a puff of orange and purple flowers that matched her shawl.

"Still up, dear? President Snow overloads you, I swear."

She bent down to give him a kiss on the cheek, which he accepted with an absent look. She glanced at the hologram with interest.

"What are you watching? Ah, the Games! I remember that year. Very intense—goodness, I cried more through that year than through the previous three Games put together!" Tilting her head to one side, she chattered on, "I really felt awful for these two kids. You know… when I think about it, there is no couple from the Games that deserves the title of Star-Crossed Lovers more than Johanna and this boy from Twelve. Look at them! It's not that I'm not happy for Katniss and Peeta, on the contrary. It's just that their romance didn't feel as true and strong as this one. This is so simple and innocent and sincere… They look really happy toge—"

Ianus hurled his drink across the room. It flew through the hologram's image and shattered against the pristine wall. He jumped to his feet and strode to the other end of the room, visibly trying to recompose himself. Gherania, who had flinched and gone quiet, eyed him warily.

"Darling, what is it? What did I say?"

He turned towards her. A muscle was working in his jaw. His voice, however, was surprisingly steady.

"You really should be more careful when you talk about the tributes. If the public heard you speak, they'd think you don't support the Games."

She shook her head. "But that's not true! I do support them! I watch them every year! I just… sometimes there is so much suffering that I wish the kids—"

"That's the point isn't it?" Ianus made a sweeping gesture. "That's what the Games are about, dear. The tributes _are_ meant to suffer. It's their punishment for the uprising, and it's a way for Panem to stay clear of another war like the last one. Don't you see? By letting those few people from Districts suffer, the Capitol allows millions of other people to stay safe and protected. Think of the tributes as martyrs, if you will, and be grateful to President Snow for having designed this elaborate system to keep the nation in balance."

Gherania wiped at her eyes once, but lowered her gaze and nodded. "You're right, of course. I am grateful. It's just… I guess I wish everyone could be happy, but that's idealistic of me, isn't it?"

She rose, glanced at the mess the shattered drink had caused and called an Avox. She then approached her husband and stroked his face. "Don't worry, it's going to be fine. We both are tired, that's all. And there is the Quell to look forward to, though I'm sorry you'll have to be away so often." Rising on her toes, she kissed him again. "Let's go to bed, shall we?"

He nodded and took her offered hand. Together they mounted the stairs to their bedroom while the Avox left for the kitchen, his work done. The room became empty except for the image of two teenagers huddled together in their sleep on the large hologram screen.


End file.
